Ocean in a tumbler!

When Mariam, my three years old little girl is playing her childish games, with her pretty talks to her teddy bear and kitchen sets and imaginary peers on the phone, I often fail to resist the temptation to go straight up to her, lift her up and hug and cuddle her in my arms, and do everything that I think as ways of expressing my love for her. And then, everything comes to an end. Her game, her talks…a complete interruption of the flow of her enjoyment, all from my inability to enjoy the beauty of her talks and character unfolding in her games, from a distance!

Perhaps we do this very often. When we are too much in love with something or someone, we go rushing and grab it, to somehow possess it, to make it a part of our world plucking it from its own world, instead of taming us to watch it from the distance that we are, while allowing them the freedom and space to be in their world; it is a sunset of which the saffron colours we enjoy but cannot desire to own; it is a tide that has to be part of an ocean and can’t be carried in a tumbler…

Our innate urge to own – regardless of its intention, the craving to possess – whether to nurture or puncture, often interrupts the process….and therefore shatters in no time the joy of seeing the pleasure unfold.

Love, too, in its true sense is a feeling to be felt without interrupting its evolution and process, whether near or far, owned or not. The battle of feelings that sway its swords and spears in the middle of our chest from not being contented with the containment of the unexpressed emotions is understood, but that restlessness, that craving and yearning and longing for one more step to walk together, one more minute to sit together, is what sustains true love.

What is not expressed gives a hope and ambition to express, some-other-time….and the longing for that some-other-time to dawn is the beauty in the hope of that love.

I sometimes wonder if orgasm is a flaw in human design, for it terminates the hope for an eternal gracious moment, a wrong punctuation between an eternal bliss, stealing away the indescribable joy for the greed of wanting more; but in the same breath, I am aware too the naiveté’s of that suggestion, for how flawless is the design of God who designed the petals of a lily in the remotest corner of the valleys where human eye would hardly sight its beauty, as perfect as the petals of a lily in the middle of a palace garden!


Shahir

Who am I?

Please do not define me; I may be smaller than your definition, or bigger than its shape! It may be a definition of just a visible portion of me, and a mass in me will remain undefined; I may not be still and might form patterns of a kaleidoscope through the evolution of time. I may not have depth, or I am fathomless.

I am in my workshop – without chisels and hammer, a silent chamber of thoughts with cracked windows letting in bright light - and I am weaving words with beads of letters, colourful at that, to lay them on sentences and to spread on them my expressions of love and care…a hug for the un-hugged, a touch for the un-touched, patience to the tempered, silence to the un-heard…or just a look for the unseen…and more.

I am that wandering kite in the mid-night sky; the flight through the unknown is itself my destination! I am that flickering lantern in the middle of a humming desert; the fight with the wings of wind is alone my plight! I am that glimmering words in the eyes of a child; the unspoken sound of thoughts is a veil before my life.

I am lover of words and shaper of thoughts; pride of the proud and envy of the envious; the flame to light, fire to fight; the spring to irrigate, the tide to eradicate; put together the pieces of you and me, we become the soul of peace.

I am an oscillation between openness and concealment; between fear and confidence; between joy and sorrow; between fantasy and reality; I am at times a palette full of colours, and at times I am the canvas. I am real. I am virtual.

Who am I? I am who you make of me; my stretched hands are meant to hug, if that’s what you longed for, or they are the measure of distance that I keep of you if that’s what you demand for; my smile is an embodiment of gratitude and contentment for your presence in my life, or it is an acknowledgement of your wickedness that you hide in vain; who am I? I am a representation of you, a response to your thoughts, a reflection of your image, a symbol of your existence.

My hopes are driven by my dreams; my dreams are propelled by my vision; my vision is an indicator of my character; my character is better than my reputation; my reputation is what you think I am; I am what I think I want to be; and yet, I can only be what you would help me to be…

I love the deafening sound of silence; I love the blinding colour of darkness; I love the rib-breaking sense of sadness; I love the crowded thoughts in loneliness; I love them, for they all teaches me lessons of life – the value of sound, the diverse colours of life, the causes of joy and the reasons to love. Moreover, it teaches me why you are important!

Not the toughness of my structure; not my voice that sound ruptured; not the wrinkles on my skin; not the names of my kin; not the gel on my hair; not the watch I wear; Oh it’s in my heart that I cherish the values that I live by, explore them, O! World as you naively chose to pass by.

You must be good if you are hearing what I am saying; O! how great you must be if you are listening to what I haven’t said…

Shahir.

Note: these are a reflection of self over the last two months, and if they seem to be inconsistent, or meaningless, that's what is perhaps what it is meant to be - the ever changing dynamism of human evolution; the inconsistency of definition is only to highlight the irrelevance of attempt to define...because the definition cannot be constant)

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The Near and the Distant

Every time they look out through the window to see the plants and flowers in my garden, their eyes search through the other end of the fence, on the lavender and the orchid that are yet to bloom; what wrong did the daffodils and daisy do for it to not have your attention, a caressing touch on their petals or a loving admiration for its beauty? That it is already blossomed, or that it is in front of you, within your reach?

The tourists at the Taj Mahal are struggling for choice of words to describe the magnificence of the marble structure epitomizing the love of a man for his beloved! The exquisite splendor of its pathways and the flowerbed and the reflective pools gets little admiration in the perceived magnificence of the dome structure at the far distant!

The strength and power of the base of Eiffel Tower or the Pyramids are of little significance in the eyes of men and women standing with their jaws down at its base, looking in awe at the farther end of it, the tip of the structure, oblivious of the might of the base that holds it beside which they stand, paying little attention.

Why is the blossomed flower in front less important than the bud that is yet to bloom? The flowerbed and the pool and the pathways together make the Taj Mahal wholesome, not in isolation. It is a mix of the less and the more, the small and the big, the short and the tall, the black and the white that makes the kaleidoscope beautiful.

What is familiar is less valued than the more unfamiliar; what is near is regarded low than what is far; what is here is admired less than what is there; what is mine is ignored for what is theirs.

In the end, when the path of journey meets an end, when the muscles are tired and when the beauty of fantasy is less colorful than the face of reality, we all turn to one place…what was familiar that we condemned, what was near that we overlooked, what was here that we devalued, and what was mine that we ignored.

Shahir

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Prisoner Number 466-64

Ten years after I bought this at the St George’s Mall in Cape Town, I read it again during the last week - Long Walk to Freedom, by Nelson Mandela.

Every time I read an article or a book, or watch a documentary about this living legend, it dwarfs the struggles and challenges that I and the many who I know are facing in our lives within our four walls of being! The life Madiba – as Nelson Mandela is fondly known by his people – lead underground for months and years in a row, the challenges he faced in hiding, the pain of seeing a family break and the children disintegrate, the heat of being under scrutiny and the pressure of winning the race in court rooms in the middle of hawks that are waiting for just a slip let alone a fall, the inhumane conditions that he were to put up between the prison walls and in the hands of the cruel jailors, the fear of losing an identity as tall as his in the absence of something as simple as the measure of time or sense of events around him, the perseverance to stand up in spite of the might of power and length of hopeless nights, the patience to be in the khaki clothes of prisoners and yet to keep focus on building a parliament of democracy, the ability to carry gravels and hammer in one hand and the hope of a nation on his shoulder without letting them slip, and in the end to face the joy of walking into freedom only to sit with his face covered in his weakened hands to avoid the sight of Winnie walking away from his life..

A broken toe-nail, a broken button on the shirt, a disorganized book-shelf, an un-mowed lawn, a squabble with the neighbor or a less appealing dish on the dining table are often good enough a cause of friction in our lives; a dwarf in front of the giant that his struggles were!

It was a coincidence that I picked this book to read again; I just saw the other day that it is twenty years since he walked out of the prison in Roben Island, where he spent 27 years of his life.

A ‘day’ of challenge is at times unbearable; he faced them twenty seven years….and many more before that sentence; his four hours speech before his sentence remains in my heart and mind the most inspiring, after the “I have a dream”of Martin Luther King.

What is survival? Survival is our ability to stand up for what we believe as true, and to stand up when standing up for that belief becomes the most difficult thing to happen.

Madiba not only stood up with his team, with shackles on his ankles he walked in small steps a long long way before he could take that long walk to freedom.

Among the many from around the world who must be standing in queue with a little bouquet of love for you to commemorate the twenty years of ‘freedom’ after your struggle, I stand in line, to salute you…

I am proud that I am living in a generation who has witnessed you live, and transform a country with a message to the world, a world where chaos prevails amidst the call for peace; where the drumming for war and blood are louder than the humming for love and peace.


Shahir

The Stillness Of Silence

I am empty today; there is a stillness in me – a peaceful stillness; the kind of serene, calm and fulfilling stillness that one can visualize as being in a boat in the middle of a lake in the early morning hours of a moonlit night...that’s the kind of emptiness I feel as I write this...an enriching emptiness, a peaceful inward reflection...

How can we capture these vacuum of thoughts; or is the vacuum itself a space for breeding of more thoughts? The punctuation of silence and the grammar of thoughts interspersed by sighs from deep within, are they the embryo of new thoughts that are yet to get birth, or are they the whisper of the process of crystallizing experience of living?

Whatever be the definition, it is essential at times that we have these patches of stillness; these space of silence. A few moments away from the crowd and its race towards tomorrow...; a few moments of passionate soulful bonding with one’s own self, listening to the rhythm of breath, the surprise in seeing with awe the lines of wrinkles on the knuckles, softly caressing the pores and lines of our own skin’s ageing and the silent reflection of the corridors of time it passed through; I am yet to see anyone who has marked in their calendar of activities a meeting with one’s own self...; Shahir marking in his diary a meeting with Shahir himself to discuss his concerns and celebrate his achievements... a conscious attempt to spare some time to contemplate and look inward to see what is glowing, and to replace the fused bulbs.

Would that be like re-fuelling our vehicles? How much are we taxing us by not giving this honor to our own self? How are we rewarding us?

What is the point, Shahir?

The point is, that it is Ok to be still; it’s Ok to be silent; it’s Ok to be doing nothing; it’s Ok not to produce for a while, if that while will bring forth better products and results a little while after. It’s Ok...to feel on your fingers the water from a running tap and hear the low and high octaves of its sound with the curiosity of a child; it’s OK to lie on the bed a little longer than the clock’s ticking of time’s arrival; it’s Ok...to walk on the grass and feel its blades between our toes...

It’s Ok...

...it’s simply Ok...to discover the intuitive currents of natural wisdom of life in the perceived nothingness of existence.

It's Ok..., really.


Shahir


This article was originally written on February 06, 2009.

The Bouquet

She kept on looking through the corner of her eyes, and just when she knew that he is not seeing, she would have a good full look, and enjoy.

This is the story of an old man and a little girl, both of them travelling in a bus, seated in the same row with the aisle in the middle dividing them. The old man noticed for long that the little girl’s eyes are on the beautiful bouquet he is carrying on his lap. And the little girl, she kept on admiring the beauty of the flowers...for long.

In different stops more people got in and a few got out. And there came the stop where the old man had to get out. The bus stopped. The old man got up. He walked straight to the child, and gave her the bouquet, gently put his hand on her shoulder and said...

“...my wife love flowers...and every week I get one like this for her; this one is also for her; but this week I know she will understand and perhaps she will be more than happy if I were to tell her that I offered this to you; have a good day, my child”.

With a gentle smile at those around him, the old man made his way to get out of the bus...and slowly walked straight towards the huge gate that was lying half open...

....he walked past the gate – the gate of a cemetery – where his wife was laid to rest.

I found this story very profound; touching.. and I thought I will share this with you because it may mean something to you just as it meant something to me.

Among the many dimensions you may see as the meaning of this story, one that I find as weighing more is about the broadness of mind and deepness of heart to give ‘that very thing what we value most’ at that moment of giving....; the ability to give not what we would never need again, but the willingness to give what you may still want or would like to still use but considers more the noble and serene pleasure of experiencing a moment of happiness in the eyes of the other in that moment of ‘giving’...that simple gesture of fulfilling a piece of dream for the other person.

It is about ‘giving’.

When a Ted Turner or Bill Gates can write away a cheque that can influence the lives of hundreds and thousands of people across the world, perhaps there is a little bouquet of something that we all are carrying on our lap that may make a difference for someone less privileged who’s travelling with us in this journey of life...as we walk towards the huge gate...!

Sometimes.... just sometimes... it may be as simple as a smile... or a nod of acknowledgement... than the cold face of ‘indifference’ the material world has so well adapted as a norm of ‘secured’ life.

Shahir

(This article was written on January 23, 2009)

The Difference!

When too many people ask you the same question, address them; that may well be the change that would make the difference!

When one person ask you too many questions, ignore them; that may well be the difference between an ordinary and an extra-ordinary!

Shahir

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The Long Wait!

Ayn Rand once said: “Ask yourself whether the dream of heaven and greatness should be waiting for us in our graves - or whether it should be ours here and now and on this earth.”

For many, life is a series of waiting; the end of one waiting often marks the beginning of another wait, thus forming a chain of waiting; waiting forms an experience, and that experience become life.

In that house is a sick in the bed waiting for his health to return, or the agonizing wait for the ultimate exit; those couples in the neighborhood are in the wait for a loving child, the anxious wait to touch those little fingers and to see them scribbling clouds and cats on the walls; the young girl sitting on the window-sill is awaiting an SMS, hoping for technology to bring in on the screen the words she’s longing to read; that young man on the stone-bench in the park around the corner is waiting for that phone call, that long wait for that longing voice!

That little girl sitting on the doorsteps with her hair braided on both sides has been waiting for the postman to come through that narrow lane of her street with a bend in the end, a long wait for that parcel with a teddy-bear her dad in the army promised to send; her mother’s wait is for him to come home, safe, one day soon.

The farmer in the paddy-field is waiting for rain to pour; the tourist on the street is waiting for the sun to shine!

The saint in the cave is waiting for his nirvana, the ultimate symbol of existence; the lady in the brothel is waiting for her next source of her meal, the artificially infused nirvana of living!

In market and in the thick shadow of darkness are the whispers of people venting their frustration from their wait for a day of light; in the corridors of hospitals are the hush-hush sound of people waiting and in the streets are the rambling noise of vehicles waiting…

The wait is never ending; the wait for employment, the wait for that approval, the wait for that acceptance; the wait for that belongingness; the wait for that identity; the wait for this, that or the other.

Yesterday we spend waiting for today, and today we continue our wait for tomorrow; the present ever in the race of running past our sight to the fast fading past of life….

And as I finish writing this, there is a wait to see if you will read it till this line!

"Life was always a matter of waiting for the right moment to act." said Paulo Coelho

Shahir.

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Co-exist to Exist

They are cherished, nourished and relished by me – as my own! Yet their existence on their own is unthinkable, and its survival is through the nourishment it receives through the many invisible chords connected to you…; yes, YOU.

My hopes are driven by my dreams; my dreams are propelled by my vision; my vision is an indicator of my character; my character is better than my reputation; my reputation is what you think I am; I am what I think I want to be; and yet, I can only be what you would help me to be…for my hopes and dreams and vision and character and reputation are nothing if I choose to achieve them alone!

Strength of the bridge is not in the quality and strength of mortar alone or its steel or its sand or its architect or its engineer but in the collective ego of the metals and rods and the sands and the mortars, the smallest of nuts and the biggest of bolts, and in the synthesized application of mind and wisdom of the architects transferring its essence to the engineers and to the layman; the dream of the bridge to stand the test of time and weather the tides of weather is determined by this collective strength that the generations to come will forget to remember; such is the power of you in achieving my dream!

When you stand in my way, you may be unknowingly helping me learn resilience; when you decide not to hold my hand as I walk in the terrains of rugged life, you may be opening before me chapters on perseverance; the apprehension rising from the bitterness of all that on one side, and the inability to comprehend the internal transformation these experiences causes on individual are all facts left unmeasured; yet, I realize the power of you in achieving my dream!

Interim thoughts of an aspiring mind….!

Shahir.

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Horizon! What is it?

Andrea asked me: "Shahir, What is horizon? Is it the limit between the reality and imagination?

In fact, I don't really know!!

Is it the imagination itself, drawn and redrawn to the like of our illusions; is it an illusion itself, designed and redesigned with an enlightening hope; horizon is there, and we walk towards it...hoping to reach there, hoping to be in it, immersed, attached, dissolved. Horizon is the lie in the truth of life; it is not there and still it exist! Is it a shelter to escape from the now to define the 'forward'? Is it an inn to rest...

Horizon is what is within your site, and yet what moves away from your reach everytime you are close to her.

Horizon is what you create; horizon is what you believe. Yours and mine, it's all the same, yet different entirely.

What do you think horizon is?


Shahir

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